Excerpt of The Marshal's Destiny by C.H. Admirand

"Hold the team!"

The snorting and stamping miraculously stopped.

"Easy, miss."

The stranger's voice called to her on an elemental level, forcing her to ignore everything but the sound of his voice. It pulled her back from the comforting darkness to the chaos and pain.

Maggie swallowed against the lump in her throat, nearly releasing the tears she fought to hold back. "I may have made a wee bit o' noise when the arrow—"

The words dried up on her tongue when she looked up and locked gazes with the stranger sitting across from her. Had she died already then? Was this her guardian angel come to take her to heaven? The sunlight pouring in through the open door framed his head, gilding the edges of his tawny–blond hair, setting off his gorgeous eyes—brilliant deep–green eyes. She was awestruck by the rugged beauty of the man's face.

She watched his eyes harden, as his gaze dipped down to the arrow and back up again. The intense color of his eyes, so like the rolling hills around her family's small plot of land back home, enthralled her.

He used his thumb to push the hat farther back on his head, the movement releasing a lock of wavy sun–kissed hair. It fell into his eyes. He brushed it aside with a hand that was every inch as big as her brother Seamus's. He'd need to be strong to remove the arrow, but she could barely handle the pain.

He inched closer and placed his hands on his knees, but before he could speak, Annie blurted out, "She's pinned to the seat."

He looked away from Maggie for the first time since entering the coach. She felt her control waver as she watched him nod to the other woman. He understood. The moment he looked back, his confidence washed over her. ‘Twill be all right then.

Watching his face for a clue as to how bad her injury really was, she saw his jaw clench and a muscle under his left eye leap twice before he ground his teeth together. The sound grated across her already frayed control. Not good—not good at all.

"I'm wonderin' if it would be easier to remove the seat—"

"Hold still." Waves of heat poured off his body as he scooted closer.

She could use some of his warmth—she was so cold. Trying to calm her racing heart, she breathed deeply. His masculine scent enveloped her. Her head reeled as the potent combination of body–warmed leather, sandalwood soap, and a hint of horse washed over her.

Her gaze swept over the breadth of his broad chest and the star pinned to it. His shoulders were massive, and he definitely looked strong enough to pull the arrow free. Would he be gentle removing it from her swollen flesh?

She looked back up at his face and his grass–green eyes locked on hers.

"I have to get an idea of how deeply the arrow embedded itself in the cushion." He paused.

Was he waiting for her to say something? "Should I try to lean forward?" Lord she hoped he wouldn't ask her to.

"Can you do that?"

Maggie silently cursed her tongue for moving before her brain could think things through. Heaven help her. Was she daft altogether? If it hurt not to move, it was certain to be worse if she did.

"She's lost a lot of blood," Annie began, "I don't think—"

She watched his gaze swing over to Annie's. The look that passed between the two did not bode well at all. She shivered, then stiffened her resolve and screwed up her courage. She could handle anything—she was a Flaherty!

"What do ye want me to do?"

"Can you lean forward?" The low rumble of his voice soothed her. "Even an inch would help." Like a healing balm the deep timber of his words spread across her aching muscles.

"I'll give it me best," she answered honestly, "but I won't be promising I can."

The grim visage before her softened as the man's face relaxed into a lopsided grin. A dimple formed along one side of his mouth, drawing her eyes that spot. She couldn't help but notice his strong, whiskered jaw, or the dark blond mustache framing his beautifully sculpted lips.

The sudden urge to trace them with the tips of her fingers jarred her. She hadn't been tempted to look at another man—much less touch one—since she'd held her darling Rory close as he breathed his last.

"She's got a bucket of grit to spare."

"Ye say that like it's a bad thing, Annie." As the words were leaving her lips, another wave of pain came out of nowhere, hitting her right between the eyes. She couldn't hold back a low moan of agony.

All traces of his grin disappeared as the man clenched his jaw. Did he feel her pain? Were they linked somehow?

"Ready?"

She nodded and slowly eased her body toward him. As the arrow moved, her arm felt as if it were being ripped apart and set on fire. She began to doubt her body's ability to absorb any more of the pain. Fresh blood spilled from the wound, adding a bright crimson to the already bloody bandage.

He reached around behind her, deftly slipping his fingertips beneath her. His gaze locked with hers. "Trust me."